An acorn rests like a sealed thought, mistaking its shell for truth.
Rain softens it, teaching that sinking is sometimes the first form of rising.

The crack that follows isn’t ruin but translation—identity shedding its armor.
A root dives downward like a question; a shoot climbs upward like an answer.

The oak that forms is a cathedral of yielded moments, not defended ones.
And its fallen acorns are reminders that beginnings travel in circles.